As night fell, Sofia attended Princess Mirielle’s feast inside the dining room of the Galian royal palace. She’d never felt so out of place.

The room bathed in a mint green hue, the polished wooden dining tables forming a U-shape, inviting guests to dance in the open space. On benches, Luis and Aurelio were conversing with the eventual champion of the tournament, Sir Theon Balogun, laughing in their cups while Father and King Rickard drank wine from their goblets, discussing something, their voices drowned by the countless other floating conversations. Prince Rickard and Princess Mirielle sat together, the princess presumably laughing at something her husband said. Prince Jacques was late. Again.

Sofia sat alone, talking to no one, her fingers tracing the intricate carvings on the table. The weight of a hundred eyes passed over her, like she was a mere phantom in a room brimming with life.

As she tasted the Galian wine, she cringed. The bitterness assaulted her tongue, making her yearn for the silky smoothness of the wine she enjoyed back home. She set the goblet down with a clink, the liquid inside sloshing slightly.

No doubt if her friends were here, Esme would’ve brought her own wine, a bottle of the finest vintage from their homeland. She would hold it up proudly and reject the Galian swill with a disdainful sniff. Meanwhile, Fernando would be listing all the important historical events that happened in the Galian throne room, his eyes sparkling with enthusiasm as he delved into stories of battles and treaties, kings and knights. Sofia didn’t understand why they couldn’t come. At least she wouldn’t feel so alone here.

Whenever she tried to think or clear her head, a wave of unfamiliar voices would assault her ears, especially whenever Sir Mandon Jubilee spoke. Usually, it would be some bawdy joke or a long-winded story about something he may or may not have truly done. Sofia had never heard the Coastman’s accent before, but its harshness scraped against her eardrums, making her want to storm over to The Coast Knight and demand that he shut his mouth. Instead, Sofia would sink into her chair, wishing she could disappear.

However, the night hadn’t been without its pleasures. Whenever Sofia’s gaze found Prince Rickard, a wave of excitement washed over her. She discreetly observed him from across the room, noting the way his laughter lit up his face. During the tournament, she had noticed the lustful gazes the prince had received, and it was no different here in the palace.

It was easy to see why. Sofia found herself captivated by the man’s striking appearance, from his flowing blonde hair that shimmered in the candlelight, to his sculpted shoulders that filled his black and white doublet with effortless grace. Despite beating her brother in their duel, the prince had treated Luis with the same courtesy and respect as any true knight, a gesture that hadn't gone unnoticed, least of all by her father, who had thanked him afterwards for his chivalry.

As Prince Rickard laughed alongside his wife, their happiness twisted inside Sofia’s heart like a dagger. She watched Princess Mirielle lean into him, her laughter mingling with his, their hands occasionally brushing.

Sofia's fingers tightened around the stem of her goblet, her knuckles turning white. Here she was, surrounded by opulence and merriment, yet still profoundly alone.

Many of the Galian knights oversaw the feast, standing like statues. Their faces were set in solid concentration, scanning the room with unwavering focus. Except for one. A sea green glint caught Sofia’s attention like a pearl in the ocean. At the periphery of the feast, a knight offered her a charming smile, his trident gripped casually in his hand.

As Sofia locked eyes with him, he did not look away. He relaxed into her gaze, his smile revealing a set of glistening white teeth contrasting with glossy pale skin. She remembered him from the tournament, the way he had defeated Sir Eduardo Jeffro and The Ivy Knight, Sir Edrick Combermere, with ease, his trident slicing through the air with deadly precision. He’d worn a helmet then, but now his face was on full display, his bronze hair styled to resemble cascading waves crashing onto the shore.

He strolled towards her, each step making her heart thump. She hurried to brush her hair behind her ears, her palms sweaty with anticipation. The din of the feast faded into the background, her focus narrowing to the approaching knight. He held a sort of intensity in his sea-green eyes that pierced through thin layers of formality and directly into the soul. A shiver ran down her spine, her breath hitching slightly.

'Princess Sofia,' the knight said, bowing his head, 'It’s a pleasure to make your acquaintance. My name is Finn Alisser.'

Sofia gulped as she tensed in her seat. She needed to remember her courtesies. 'Good evening to you, Sir Finn.'

Sir Finn nodded, gazing up at the ceiling. 'Aye, it is.' He glanced down at the empty seat to Sofia’s left. 'May I?'

Sofia followed his gaze, but swiftly returned to looking into his sea-green eyes. She nodded, the knight’s smile only getting wider as he took a seat.

The room still swirled with voices, crashing against Sofia’s ears as Finn took an orange from the table and peeled it. He popped a segment into his mouth, controlling his chewing to a slow and savouring pace.

'You look radiant tonight, Princess, especially your dress,' the knight said sheepishly.

Sofia widened her eyes, the things she could say to complement him piling on top of her. She silently took a breath and composed herself.

'Thank you. It’s…' my mother’s dress, she was going to say, but she stayed her tongue, the memory of her mother paining her, even after all these years.

If you work hard and make sure you do all the right things, you will succeed, I can promise you that.

'You fought well in the tournament. I imagine the armour you wear is… quite heavy.'

Finn looked down at his black armour and a chuckle floated out of his mouth. 'It can be. You can borrow it one day if you like.'

Sofia found herself bursting into laughter as she imagined herself wearing all of that plate. Fighting was her brother’s arena, and she’d much rather keep it that way.

'Do you want a bit of this orange?' Finn said, sliding it towards her, 'I never like eating alone.'

Sofia stared at the orange sat in front of her, the segments faintly glowing in the light. She took one and placed it into her mouth. As she chewed, the sweet and zesty taste of the orange buzzed her taste buds.

'There’s plenty more where they came from,' Finn said, his northern accent only growing stronger, 'They’re grown right here in the palace, in the courtyard outside.' He pointed at the doors. 'The gardeners here are incredible at what they do.'

'Your accent,' Sofia said, 'Northern?'

Finn took another segment of his orange and popped it into his mouth. 'Aye. Fisherton, a little fishermen’s town. It’s the reason I carry this.' He lifted his trident with a humorous and somewhat embarrassed smile.

Sofia laughed again, Finn joining in as he brought it back down to stand next to him. 'Was that your choice?'

'Blame my lord father. He insisted I be the first knight of the royal guard to wield a trident.'

Sofia let another giddy chuckle escape. 'Well, you wield it well.'

'Thank you.'

Sofia’s cheeks flushed, a warmth spreading through her. She couldn’t stop herself from laughing as each burst of humour bubbled up within herself. Her heart pounded with a swirling storm of excitement and nervousness. As she opened her mouth to ask him another question, she caught a movement in the corner of her eye.

'Attention!'

Prince Rickard stood before everyone, his golden hair shining.

'I believe it is time we had some music,' he said, nodding for a band of men carrying drums and bagpipes to flutter into the feast. The rising rumble of the drums shook the room, the light humming of bagpipes joining them as excited whispers floated amongst the guests.

'Mirielle, my love,' Prince Rickard said to his wife, laying his hand out before her, 'As a token of thanks for organising such a beautiful feast, will you take my hand and dance with me?'

Despite Princess Mirielle’s best efforts to appear surprised, a subtle glance towards the onlookers betrayed her. She took her husband’s hand, and they made their way to the floor, the drums pulsing through Sofia’s body.

The pair moved like peacocks, gracefully strutting around each other, their eyes locked in an unbroken gaze. They synchronised each step, their movements a fluid dance that made the music itself bend to their will. It was as if the Gods had crafted them for this moment, their connection palpable to everyone watching.

Is this just an act, Sofia wondered, or is this what true love looks like?

When they bowed to each other, a wave of applause thrashed about the room and some of the guests rose from their seats to take their dances.

Sofia locked eyes with Finn. The knight nodded towards the floor. Sofia’s heart dropped at the sight of the crowd, the pulsating beats of the music reverberating through her. She couldn’t dance, not here, not in front of everyone. What if she missed a step, or fell? She couldn’t risk such embarrassment.

Finn gave her a comforting look, as if he’d read her mind, and laid his hand out for her. With one touch of his hand on hers, her fear melted away, and she found herself stumbling towards the floor.

The relentless beat of the drums echoed in the background, driving Sofia as she stepped onwards. She fixed her gaze on Finn, never once breaking her connection with the pulsating rhythm.

'Follow me,' he whispered.

The bagpipes quickened and everyone put their arms up like they were surrendering. Sofia flung her arms in the same way, stealing quick glances at the lady beside her to ensure she was mimicking her correctly. Sofia awkwardly jerked her body around, always moving a split-second behind everyone else. She stuck out like a sore thumb.

Finn smiled at her. 'How are you finding it?'

They pranced to the right. 'The music…' They pranced to the left. 'The music is pleasant.'

Sofia stumbled on that last step, her face flushing with embarrassment.

Finn chuckled. 'I fell over on my first dance as well. You’re doing well.'

They spun around each other, Sofia’s head whirling with dizziness. Finn pulled her close, guiding her through the steps. Sofia tried to keep up, but her mind was a whirlwind of thoughts, doubts, and fears she didn’t have time to dwell on. She glanced around the room, feeling the eyes of everyone on her, judging her every move. It were as if thousands of foreign voices were hitting her head all at once. Having to remember these moves hurt her even more. She had to remain calm. She was the future queen of Eastamere. Things were expected of her.

She looked into Finn’s eyes. His attempts to keep the smile off his face made Sofia smirk. They laughed in the middle of the dance floor, the entire royal court watching them.

Finn twirled her around, a surge of exhilaration flowing through her as the room spun, the vibrant colours of the guests’ attire blending into each other. Breathing heavily, Sofia found herself pressed close to him, their foreheads nearly touching.

For one single moment, Sofia forgot she was a princess. She’d forgotten she was one day going to be the queen of Eastamere. She’d forgotten about her friends, about her father, her brother, King Rickard, all of them. Only the moment mattered, with the man who had given her a precious gift, a moment of pure joy.

A hand touched Sofia’s shoulder, and the music hit her again. She turned away from Finn. Standing behind her was her father, his face as blunt as a cliff.

'Sofia,' he said, his voice like a tolling bell, 'Come. We need to talk.'

Sofia took one last look at Finn, the knight standing there resplendent in his black armour.

'It was a pleasure meeting you, good sir,' she said, her heart fluttering as she nodded his way.

Finn smiled at her. 'The feeling is mutual, princess. Have a good rest of your evening.'

He strolled solemnly away from the dance floor, joining his brothers-in-arms in overseeing the feast.

Awkwardly rubbing her elbow, Sofia followed her father towards the dining table, the aroma of freshly cooked food wafting through the air. Her father bid her sit down. Sofia sank into her chair, her full glass of wine sitting in front of her, reflecting the soft candlelight. Her heart sank, guilt and forbidden elation weighing it down.

Father nodded at her glass. 'Wine not working for you, or do you prefer my own?'

'I can explain,' Sofia blurted.

Father laughed, a wide smile brightening his face. 'Your grandfather would’ve been proud. He made that wine himself. He called it ‘the wine of youth’, a delicacy of which you can only indulge in once. Only now do I realise what he meant.' Father gazed off into the distance, his smile disappearing.

Sofia’s lingering thoughts of Finn faded as she stared at her father’s pained expression. She tried to peer into his soul, to see what he was missing. Perhaps he missed Mother like Sofia did, yet she couldn’t help but feel as if he missed something else. What that was, she couldn’t say. Father regained his smile when he recollected himself.

'I remember when your Aunt Isabela caught both myself and Serben drinking ourselves into oblivion,' he chuckled, 'You should’ve seen how red she went. Honestly, the most boring woman I have ever met.'

The king dragged his palms across his face, as if he were scraping the memories from his brain.

Sofia raised her eyebrows. 'You drank with Serben?'

She glanced over at Serben conversing with one of the golden knights of her father’s royal guard, talking in inaudible whispers.

'Can you believe he was fun once?' Father said dejectedly.

Sofia sighed. It seemed, in these sorts of gatherings, fun came in short supply. And yet Finn had given it to her. For one fleeting moment, he had given it to her.

As Sofia turned to look her father in the eye, he opened his mouth and looked down at his feet. 'The wine is not what I wanted to talk to you about. I wanted to talk to you about something else. Our trip here was not only for some mere tournament, but to achieve real, unbreakable peace. So, I was discussing the issue with King Rickard, and we came up with a solution. Marriage.'

Sofia tensed in her chair, bracing herself for the king’s command. 'Marriage?'

'Between you and Prince Jacques.'

Sofia blinked, hardly believing what she’d just heard. Marriage? To Prince Jacques, a man who didn’t even bother himself to attend the most important feast in a generation?

'What?' she growled.

'Prince Jacques will return with us to Eastamere on the morrow and become your future king consort. He is a good match for you.'

Sofia wrestled with keeping her expression neutral while her mind raced with the implications. She thought of her trip, the one she always wanted to go on, the one she still very much intended to go on. How could she do that now if she were shackled by marriage? And to Prince Jacques? A ghost in his father’s halls?

She tried to envision herself standing next to him at the cathedral altar, taking her marriage vows and drinking the holy water to seal their union. But she couldn’t.

'Why Prince Jacques, Father?' Sofia asked, 'All he does is sit in his tower. He did not even trouble himself to attend tonight’s feast. He offers us nothing.'

'He offers us unity,' the king said firmly, his brown gaze setting in stone. 'This is our chance to end a centuries-long feud between our countries…' Father’s eyes softened, as if haunted by a memory. 'And in time… I believe he has the potential to make you happy, as your mother made me happy.'

Sofia scoffed at her father for using her mother’s memory in that fashion. We both know my happiness has nothing to do with it, she thought, remembering her dance with Finn, clinging to the joy she’d felt only moments ago.

Father sighed, reading her thoughts. 'Sofia, please do not choose to misjudge me. You know I wish to see you contented, happy even, but above all, I wish to see you grow into the ruler I know you can be, as your mother always said you would be, to rule in peace and strength. Please, show strength now and help me make peace with our enemy.'

Sofia tried to breathe, to clear her mind, but a thousand questions zipped through her like lightning bolts. She needed to remember who she was and where she was. She could not embarrass her father. Not here, and not now.

'Father, may I be excused to think over what you’ve said?' Sofia asked, her chest tightening as she rose from her seat, 'Unless you’re giving me a royal command.'

Her father gave her a defeated look, as if he were looking twenty years into the past and seeing himself. He silently nodded his head.

'I’d like an answer on the morrow,' he said firmly.

Sofia forced a smile. 'Thank you, Father. You will have my answer by the morrow.'

She eyed the wooden door to the throne room, shadowed by one of the black knights of the Galian royal guard. As she approached it, the image of her standing next to Prince Jacques at the cathedral altar came back to her, and her throat clammed, choking her. With one sip of holy water, she would be a married woman, unable to return to her carefree days with her friends. She would be with him every single day, sharing a bed with him, one day having his children, all for the sake of peace. Breezing past the knight at the door, Sofia pushed it open and stumbled into the throne room, the moonlight glinting off the throne and into her eyes.

(Scene 2)

The wind whispered through Sofia’s hair, lifting strands clinging to her damp cheeks. She stood secluded in the courtyard outside the grandeur of the throne room, seeking solace where no prying eyes could see her. Around her, the courtyard flourished with an abundance of life—from towering, verdant plants to spruced rows of potatoes, each leaf meticulously tended. Sir Finn wasn’t lying when he said the gardeners here were incredible at what they did. Her heart wrenched as she remembered dancing with him.

In the heart of the courtyard, a fountain burbled, its waters shimmering in the soft moonlight. Beyond the peaceful courtyard, a path beckoned, leading towards the heart of the city, yet barred by a looming black gate.

From the distant dining hall, the muffled sounds of revelry drifted like a haunting melody, reminding Sofia of the festivities she had abruptly left behind.

Her vision blurred as tears welled up anew. With a trembling hand, she attempted to brush them away, only to find the moisture seeping into the fabric of her sleeve. Frustrated, she hastily wiped her cheeks, concealing the evidence, yet unable to staunch the flow of silent tears.

Her choices were so simple, yet so difficult. She could marry Prince Jacques, a man she didn’t know or love, and see the feud between Galia and Eastamere fade into nothing; or she could risk the tensions between their two kingdoms festering like a disease until war became inevitable, all to protect Sofia’s personal desires. There was only one clear choice, to her misery.

The memory of dancing with Finn resurfaced, a fleeting moment of joy and connection in this sea of obligation and sorrow. His kindness, his ease, had given her a glimpse of what life could be—filled with laughter, spontaneity, and genuine, true affection. But that vision was a distant dream now, eclipsed by the harsh reality that was her duty.

A rustling sound broke her reverie, akin to some predator stalking her. 'I must say,' Sofia whirled her body around, following the familiar voice, 'I have seen many noble ladies cry in this courtyard before, but never The Princess of Eastamere.'

Sofia blinked. Prince Rickard approached her with a shining smile, now wearing a brown leather jacket and a blue neckerchief. Her heart both fluttered and pained as she remembered him laughing alongside Princess Mirielle in the dining hall, their happiness laid bare for all to see. But as he drew closer, Sofia narrowed her eyes at him. It wasn’t Prince Rickard at all; it was his brother, Prince Jacques. The shine faded.

Support the creativity of authors by visiting Royal Road for this novel and more.

Sofia tried not to groan. Prince Rickard was everything his brother wasn’t. Where Prince Rickard stood tall and muscular, Prince Jacques stood skulking and skinny. Where Rickard had flowing blonde hair, Jacques’ hair was almost white. Where Rickard looked like a shining star, Jacques looked more like a ghoul, his spirit forever haunting the palace. How can two brothers look so similar yet so different at the same time?

'I noticed you said little during the tournament,' Prince Jacques said.

And you wouldn’t shut up, Sofia thought, but she was sober enough to deem it inappropriate to speak aloud. 'My apologies, Your Grace. I needed air.'

Prince Jacques smiled again. 'Of course you did. Now, since we’re going to be married…'

Shock pulsed through Sofia’s body, forcing her eyes to widen. How does he know about that? No doubt King Rickard had told him, which only made Sofia question how long he knew about their betrothal before she did.

Prince Jacques paused, acknowledging Sofia’s shock with a pair of raised eyebrows, before carrying on. 'Since we’re going to be married, I think it’s prudent for us to acquaint ourselves better, wouldn’t you agree?'

Sofia wanted to scoff, not only at the prince’s appearance and sudden forward advancements but also at the constant mocking tone in his voice. He made everything seem like an elaborate joke - a joke only he found funny. She would need to tolerate that for the rest of her life.

Prince Jacques took a long stride towards her and extended his hand.

'Hello, my name is Jacques Rue,' he said.

A small part of Sofia wanted to laugh at how silly he looked, but his overconfident act quelled her humour.

Prince Jacques huffed. 'You see, I am no connoisseur when it comes to social interactions, but a conversation is supposed to go two ways, yes? I say something, you say something, so on and so forth?'

What does he want me to say? Sofia thought as the night breeze licked her wet cheeks.

Jacques was waiting for Sofia to respond, but all she could picture was her friends planning their trip without her.

'Perhaps you could start by saying ‘Hello, my name is Sofia Paloma’. That will do.'

Sofia let the breeze do the talking.

Prince Jacques rolled his eyes. 'Aren’t you Eastamereans supposed to be good at diplomacy?'

Sofia shrugged, her heart begging this royal prick to just turn around and leave her alone. She didn’t want to see him. She didn’t want to see anyone. She wanted to be dancing with Finn. She wanted to be with her friends, planning her trip, packing and sailing to Gods knew where, anywhere but the place that reminded her of who she was, or what she was supposed to be—a piece in a political game.

'Alright, I’ll say my piece and then I’ll leave,' Prince Jacques said, 'Is that okay with you?'

Sofia nodded.

'Very well… I believe in you.'

With a raised eyebrow, Sofia expressed her scepticism. 'You… believe in me?'

No one had ever truly told her that since her mother died, but Jacques had said it without even speaking a word to her before now.

'Why?' she found herself asking, the curiosity slipping into her voice.

The prince smiled. 'Your father believes in you, and he’s as good a man and as a good a king as any. I don’t think you quite understand how much I wish my father would treat me the way your father treats you. Do you believe in him? Do you trust him?'

He’s my father, Sofia thought, but as she remembered his words at the feast and the choice he was forcing her to make, her anger spiked, and she dreamed of home.

'He’s my king,' she said.

Jacques smiled again, an even bigger smile as a memory flashed in his sharp blue eyes. 'Word of advice from someone who knows what he’s talking about. Cherish those who love you, for when they’re gone, they’re gone for good. Think on that, princess, and I bid you goodnight.'

Prince Jacques bowed and made his way back into the throne room, his figure bathing in the golden light of the throne.

(Scene 3)

She’s got your eyes, Owen.

Owen perked his head up as his wife’s voice floated in the air. The feast rumbled on.

He stood as still as a statue like the rest of the royal guard, shoulders square, every muscle taut as if ready for action. His hand rested on the hilt of his sword, the cold metal grounding him amidst the chaos of the evening. The rest of the guards were as motionless as he, all except Sir Theon, of course. Owen’s eyes shifted to his captain, whose commanding presence still managed to dominate the room as he spoke animatedly with Prince Luis and Sir Aurelio Diae.

Owen suppressed a sigh. It had been a long evening, the feast full of tension and unspoken undercurrents, especially after Princess Sofia’s unexpected departure. Her absence rippled throughout the hall, a quiet commotion disturbing the delicate balance of the evening. What had happened? Owen still wasn’t entirely sure, but he couldn’t shake the image of her eyes—shimmering, catching the light—as she left. There was something there, something that unsettled him, though he couldn’t quite place it.

Prince Jacques had certainly noticed. He had come to Owen directly, his face tight with concern, demanding to know where Sofia had gone. Owen had pointed him in the right direction without hesitation, feeling an odd pang of guilt as the prince stalked away. When Jacques returned, something in him had shifted. His face was pale, his normally sharp eyes dull and distant, as though he’d been dragged deep into his own mind. Owen had tried to speak to him, tried to offer some words of reassurance, but the prince had brushed past him, his voice flat and devoid of its usual vigour.

It was so unlike him, and the unease settled like a weight on Owen’s chest.

Owen’s gaze shifted back to the royal table, where Princess Sofia had just reappeared. She moved cautiously, as though testing the waters, her steps hesitant. She approached her father, King Geraldo, who, in contrast, seemed completely at ease. The king gave her a brief, warm smile, patting her on the shoulder before motioning for the servants to guide her to her chambers so she could rest for their journey back to Eastamere on the morrow.

King Rickard couldn’t help but interject. 'Sir Theon,' His voice cut through the air like a knife, 'you will have the honour of escorting the princess to her chambers.'

The Silver Knight bowed his head, his movements smooth, unhurried. As he approached the princess, she held a gleam of curiosity and wonder in her eyes, as if she were staring at a statue come to life. When Sir Theon offered her his hand, she accepted it graciously and followed him through the dining hall and out of the feast. Owen placed his hand on the white ram’s head on his pommel, his eyes darting to his fellow northerner, Sir Finn Alisser.

Throughout the feast, Owen had watched in increasing unease and horror as The Fish Knight stared at the Princess Sofia, even going so far as to dance with her. He was a young man, his face still bearing the innocence of youth, but he’d dedicated himself to protecting the royal family. Owen could only imagine what the young man’s lord father, Weymar Alisser, would say if he’d seen him do what he did. The memory of Owen’s own youth were long gone, buried under the winter snows of his mind, the carefree days before the nightmare had consumed him. He burned them out of his mind when he muttered the royal guard’s vows one more time, almost in prayer.

Keep to your vows, Owen told himself, you understand what they mean, even if others don’t. Never betray them.

A wave of sweat washed over Owen’s skin, sticking his undershirt to his back like a second layer. The capital’s heat seemed to rise with every passing minute. Owen shifted his stance, trying to find a breeze, but there was no escape from the oppressive warmth crawling into his bones. Not for the first time, he missed the cool morning breeze of Flagmere. There were few things he longed for from his former home, but that chill wind, sweeping across snow-covered fields at first light, was certainly one of them. There, he could wake to the crisp bite of air, his breath misting before him, and hear nothing but the quiet hum of life in the northern wilderness.

When he awoke now, in the capital, it wasn’t to fresh air and tranquillity, but to blankets clinging to his sweat-soaked skin and the incessant whirring of flies buzzing around like a stark reminder. In the north, snow-covered landscape stretched out into open fields, a peaceful atmosphere permitting deep contemplation. A blessing and a curse.

Owen shook the memory away, forcing his focus back to the room. Conversations fluttered around him like moths to a flame, their buzzing too low to fully catch, but distracting enough to set his nerves on edge. His ears honed in on the snippet of a nearby discussion—a lord speaking of culling half of his deer population. The other man warned him to do so humanely, and the lord reassured him, boasting about hiring an expert marksman. Owen’s lips twitched slightly, remembering when he and his older brother had taken to the northern woods to hunt deer and stag. The crisp snap of branches under their horses’ hooves, the adrenaline of the chase, and the satisfaction of a clean shot.

'That’s not true, Hollard, and you know it! The Ayasems are dead!' One lord’s voice cut through the room, sharp and slurred, drawing the attention of those nearby. Owen turned his head slightly, his interest piqued.

'Don’t be so sure, Gellarc,' another said, as if he knew more than most, 'I hear rumours old King Jacob has a granddaughter out there somewhere. Where exactly I do not know, but if it’s true-'

'The Ayasems are dead!' Gellarc growled, 'That’s the end of it!'

Owen stiffened as lightning flickered through his mind, just as it had once streaked from King Jacob Ayasem’s fingers. Everyone from the tips of the frozen north to Nymerium down south knew the story of King Jacob and his god-like powers. He'd used it to murder Owen’s grandfather, plunging the North into King Rickard’s rebellion.

A tremor ran through Owen’s hand as it hovered near his father’s sword. The memory had seared its way into his family’s legacy—his grandfather’s body turned to nothing but a pile of ash, struck down by magic only few swords could defend against. His father had rarely spoken of it, but on the few occasions King Jacob’s name had come up in conversation, Owen saw the change. His father’s face would darken, the easy, caring man replaced by a grim, shadowed figure. The subject would be changed, swiftly, and decisively.

The Ayasems are dead. Gellarc’s words echoed in his head, but Owen couldn’t be sure he believed them anymore. For all of their sakes, he hoped they were right.

Owen blinked, his eyes honing in on a mysterious figure with piercing green eyes, sauntering through the dining hall, casting a long shadow across the floor. The heat faded, and a chill passed down Owen’s spine as if a spectre had brushed itself against him. Eyes narrowing, Owen watched Lord Serben Diae stop by the seat housing Princess Mirielle, who was engaging in polite conversation, wearing a pretty smile and laughing at some lord’s jest. The moment Lord Serben bent down and whispered something into her ear, all of her smiles died. Whatever Lord Serben had said had drained the life from the princess's expression.

'Interesting, isn’t it?'

Owen flinched, his heart skipping a beat as the sudden voice pulled him from his watchful thoughts. His hand instinctively twitched toward the hilt of his sword, but he relaxed once he saw who it was—Sir Orchis Vortigon, the Hawk Knight himself. Sir Orchis stood beside him with that usual air of quiet arrogance, his hawk-like eyes fixed on the door.

'I’ve been watching Lord Serben specifically for some time,' Sir Orchis continued, his voice low, almost at a whisper. 'Odd fellow, isn’t he?'

From where I’m standing, the only odd one here is you, Owen thought, but bit his tongue, masking his unease with a neutral expression.

Across the room, Princess Mirielle gracefully rose from her seat, her green gown flowing like river water behind her as she moved through the maze of noble guests. Her exit was deliberate, smooth, as if she didn’t want to attract attention—but Owen’s eyes followed her, anyway. She gave a subtle signal, beckoning Sir Eduardo Jeffro, one of the Eastamerean royal guards, to accompany her. Owen caught the brief flash of hesitation in Jeffro’s eyes as they darted nervously around the hall before he obediently followed her—and Lord Serben—out of the feast.

Tension twisted in Owen’s gut like a knot being pulled too tight. Princess Mirielle was a charming woman, a charitable woman, would be queen someday, if the Gods were good. But something about this felt strange. Something about this felt… wrong.

Sir Orchis stalked toward the door. 'Shall we see what they’re up to?' His voice bore an edge of excitement, like a predator sensing a hunt. He flashed Owen a daring smile. 'Or are you going to stick yourself to that spot like it’s nothing but thick mud?'

'It’s my duty,' Owen replied firmly, though the words weighed heavier than they should have. He stood rooted to the spot, his mind clinging to the principles Sir Theon had drilled into him since his first day of royal guard training. His duty was to remain vigilant, to guard the feast, not chase after whispers in dark corridors.

'Come now, not even slightly curious?' Sir Orchis whispered, his eyes gleaming with mischief and determination.

Owen’s mind urged him to stay put, to fulfil his duty without question. But his heart, his restless heart, yearned for something—answers, perhaps.

That desire would turn to an itch in his brain, an itch he couldn’t scratch while staying here. Owen glanced around the room, ensuring his temporary absence wouldn’t compromise the security of the feast.

Cursing himself, he said, 'fine.'

(Scene 4)

Owen followed Sir Orchis into the throne room. The tall doors to the courtyard slammed shut, a slithering shadow disappearing to the other side of it.

They could access no sound nor sight of Princess Mirielle’s dealings from the throne room without being caught. That would be that. Owen would turn around and return to the feast and carry out his duty as a royal guard, what he should’ve done since the start.

'One of the towers overlooks the courtyard,' Sir Orchis said. 'We’ll get a good view from there.' The Hawk Knight pranced across the room.

So eager, Owen thought, his frustration bubbling, just tell me what you think is going on, damn you! Why must you play these games with me?

Owen followed all the same, his hand resting on Ramshorn’s pommel, feeling the comforting weight of his father’s sword at his belt.

The moonlight shredded into blades, reflecting onto the wall of the twisting spiral staircase, Sir Orchis leading as he climbed the steps of the tower. Owen struggled to keep up, his legs pumping as he lugged his body forward. His tired breaths came in short, controlled bursts, his muscles straining with the effort. The dark walls seemed to close in on him, the narrow space confining him with The Hawk Knight.

Vortigon wasn’t much younger than Owen was, perhaps his mid-thirties, but he moved like a man half that age. He recalled Sir Theon saying once that even in autumn, where crusty leaves littered the street, one still wouldn’t hear Sir Orchis coming before he’d slice your throat and leave you in the dark to rot. That was unless his spies didn’t reach you first.

Throughout his tenure as a royal guard, Owen remained clueless about the identities of those who spied for Sir Orchis and those who didn’t. A concept that could drive any man mad with paranoia. The only people Owen didn’t suspect were his brothers of the royal guard. Everyone else was up for debate: the diligent cooks, the discreet servants, even the king’s trusted steward, fell under Owen’s suspicions.

As they neared a balcony overlooking the courtyard, Sir Orchis glanced back at Owen, his eyes gleaming with a mix of excitement and something else—something darker. Owen’s hand tightened around his sword, ready for anything. The Hawk Knight reached the final step and pushed open a small, creaking door, revealing the narrow overlook.

'You must do it with this,' Princess Mirielle’s voice caught in the wind.

Owen stepped onto the balcony, the cool night air washing over him. His weak eyes scanned the scene below, searching for any sign of Princess Mirielle or Lord Serben. The courtyard was bathed in silvery moonlight, casting everything in an ethereal glow. Shadows shifted and moved, playing tricks on his eyes.

'There, my lord,' Sir Orchis whispered mockingly as he pointed towards a secluded corner of the courtyard. Owen followed his gaze.

Princess Mirielle, Lord Serben, and Sir Eduardo stood hidden amidst the lush foliage, forming a triangle. Princess Mirielle held a sword in her grasp. Owen recognised the work of the royal smith, Brandy Shore. Every blade he crafted boasted a regal crown, and the pricier ones were even personalised with the wielder’s initials etched into the steel. The blade gleamed in the moonlight, with the initials J and R etched on each side of the ridge.

She handed it to Sir Eduardo who carefully examined its weight before nodding in approval.

'Now, that is an interesting sight, is it not, Sir Owen?' Sir Orchis said, his voice slicing through the silence. As Owen turned his head towards him, he met his sharp brown eyes.

Why does Princess Mirielle have Prince Jacques’ sword? He thought, trying to make sense of it all. Why has she given it to this knight?

'You want to exchange gossip and rumours like a couple of old women?' Owen growled.

'You’re telling me that doesn’t look suspicious?' Sir Orchis countered, his eyes narrowing.

Owen took another look. He didn’t want to admit it, otherwise he’d be confessing things weren’t going as well as they seemed. Finally, Galia and Eastamere had peace.

'Why are you showing me this?' Owen demanded.

A devilish smile curled onto Sir Orchis’ face as he leaned against the wall. 'Because I hear you want to become the new captain of our brotherhood.'

Owen’s heart dropped, dread washing over him. 'How do you know about that?' he asked, clenching his teeth.

Sir Orchis raised his eyebrows at that question.

Owen sighed. It didn’t matter where he’d heard it.

'I say if you bring this to the king tonight, we can stop whatever Mirielle is planning,' Sir Orchis said.

Owen narrowed his eyes at him. This was the Hawk Knight he was talking to. 'If you’re so bloody bothered, why haven’t you done something about it?'

'I am a hawk, sir,' Sir Orchis said, 'I watch from afar. A ram runs into a situation head first to protect what they hold dear, that’s who you are. If we are successful, you can take all the credit. The king will insist you become the new captain and he’ll retire Sir Theon to some withered old shack far away. You will become all you’ve ever set out to be.'

Owen’s face fell. If that were the case, he’d be stabbing the man who made him in the back, knocking him off the ladder of the capital and sending him falling into the abyss. All of this felt very familiar. Sweat clung to Owen’s skin as his mind plunged back into Flagmere, the nightmare. He’d left that behind for a reason; to serve, to protect, to follow orders.

'And if you’re wrong? If the princess is innocent of whatever you’re accusing her of? How do you think the king would treat a northerner speaking out against a princess? Then where would I be?'

Sir Orchis shook his head. 'Don’t be a fool, Owen. You know there is something brewing.'

'You want me to scheme and meddle? For what? So I can stab the man who made me who I am in the back? If you want that, find someone else!'

Owen turned on his heels and went to storm down the stairs, the leather of his gloves squealing as he kept his hand on the pommel of his sword. He was a knight of the Galian royal guard, nothing more, and the realm would be at peace.

'And what of the vows you took, good sir?' Sir Orchis asked. A grin spread across his devilish face. 'Do they mean nothing to you?'

Owen hardened his face like stone. They meant more to him than anything else in the world. He knew every single word, recited them first thing every morning and last thing every night. They swirled around his mind, blocking everything else.

Sir Orchis’ smile slithered wider. 'Say them.'

Now, a chill sat in the air. It crawled up Owen’s back and deep into his ears.

'On my honour,' he began, 'And in the name of His Majesty, King Rickard of the House Rue…'

Sir Orchis wouldn’t stop staring with his hawk eyes.

The royal guard’s vows flowed out of Owen’s mouth, his mind taking him back to the day he’d said them for the first time. A rush ran through his body, a rigid determination. He needed to do the right thing now, and honour his oath, despite his better judgement telling him to walk away.

'And when I draw my final breath, I know I will have given my all.'

Sir Orchis stepped closer, his presence looming. 'Then give your all now, Sir Owen. The kingdom may depend on it.'

(Scene 5)

Sir Theon Balogun moved with the same grace and subtlety as a young man. His black armour made his silver hair shine even brighter, while the crimson cloak draped over his back like a bold stroke of blood. The stories Sofia had read about The Silver Knight said he was an artist who only used red.

The halls they walked down lay grey and dark, a perfect rectangle, only lit by the sombre flickering of torchlight. Shadows danced and flickered, casting eerie shapes on the stone walls. Sofia’s footsteps echoed softly, the sound reverberating through the silent corridor like a distant heartbeat. She found solace in the darkness, knowing Sir Theon was by her side.

As they walked, Sofia's fingers brushed against the cold, rough surface of the stone wall. She stole glances at Sir Theon, his black armour gleaming faintly in the torchlight.

She wasn’t sure what to say to him, but if she was to leave on the morrow, there were only a few chances she’d get to speak to a legendary warrior like him. She remembered her courtesies, her mind racing with questions she longed to ask but feared to voice.

'You performed admirably in the tournament today, good sir,' she said, a little higher pitched than she would’ve liked.

Sir Theon chuckled, his smooth voice resonating down the corridor. 'Thank you, Princess, but, in truth, I fear I may be getting too old for these kinds of contests.'

Sofia didn’t believe that for a second. In the final duel to decide the winner, she’d witnessed Sir Theon's prowess firsthand. He effortlessly overpowered Prince Rickard, spinning him around like a little boy and sending him tumbling to the ground in a display of strength and agility that belied his age. The clash of swords had rung through the arena, drawing gasps from the audience and a furious silence from King Rickard.

But Prince Jacques, sitting nearby, couldn’t hide his delight. A smirk had played upon his lips, a glint of satisfaction in his eyes as he relished his father’s thunderous scowl like it was worth no amount of gold.

'Sir,' she said, 'I wanted to ask you a question, if I may.'

Sir Theon chuckled again. 'Ask away, Princess.'

'I noticed a certain… tension between your king and his son Jacques.'

Sir Theon raised an eyebrow. 'You have?'

Sofia nodded. 'I did. I would appreciate it if you told me why that is.'

Sir Theon stopped in the hall, Sofia watching him intently as he stroked his chin. Whatever the reason was, he did not want to say it lightly.

'Please,' Sofia implored, 'I am to be his wife. I need to know what he’s like, who I’m marrying.'

Sir Theon nodded, but his eyebrow remained arched suspiciously. 'What do you know about Queen Lyn?'

A chilling breeze howled through the hallway. Sofia had read little about Queen Lyn, except for the fact that she was known for her beauty and golden locks, traits her sons inherited. One son more than the other.

'There… wasn’t an indication the queen was having twins. We only found out the day she went into labour. The birth of Prince Rickard proceeded smoothly. The birth of Prince Jacques…'

Sir Theon stared into the distance, his gaze vacant and lost. He’d fallen into a world of his own. Sofia saw the moment in his eyes. She saw Queen Lyn bleed out in her birthing bed, her life seeping out of her as two babies wailed in the arms of the nurses. Sofia couldn’t imagine King Rickard crying, but if he didn’t shed a tear at that, his heart was as black as the stories said it was.

'She was a great artist, the queen,' Sir Theon said with a prideful smile, 'She created wonderful art, wonderful. She even painted a portrait of the king himself. It hangs in his chambers, fully protected, and no one is allowed to touch it, not even the royal guard.'

Sofia imagined the portrait of King Rickard, standing mightily in black armour like a God.

'Does Prince Jacques partake in art, Sir Theon?' Sofia asked as they strolled further down the hall.

'Doesn’t stop. He spends hours up in his tower painting and drawing. If you ask me, it isn’t very healthy, but who am I to question a prince?'

Sofia nodded. Now, she knew who she was marrying. He’d lost a mother, just like her. Behind his funny jokes and snarky comments, perhaps he harboured the same fears about marriage as she did. Perhaps he was much better at pretending. He may not have been charming like his brother or danced with her like Finn did, but he’d come to her when she was crying in the courtyard and brought his defences down for her, if only briefly. In one fleeting moment, she saw the real Jacques Rue.

As they approached a junction in the corridor, Sofia paused, her gaze lingering on Sir Theon. 'I appreciate your honesty, Sir Theon,' she said quietly, 'I... I want to understand Jacques… to support him, if I can.'

Sir Theon met her gaze with a mixture of respect and concern. 'Princess Sofia,' he began formally, 'I understand your apprehension. But please know that this marriage is not merely a union of houses. Your understanding and support may prove more invaluable than you know.'

As Sofia stared into Sir Theon’s ancient eyes, the words sunk through her skin, piercing her heart like a blade.

More invaluable than you know. She couldn’t deny that. Sir Theon was right.

So why do I feel so afraid?

Sofia contemplated it as she approached a large, weathered brown door, Sir Theon nudging it open to reveal a dimly lit room. Inside, a majestic white bed sat shrouded by delicate, ethereal drapes.

'Thank you for escorting me, good sir,' Sofia said, inserting all the courtesy her mother had taught her.

Sir Theon smiled and bowed his head. 'My pleasure, princess.'

He turned back towards the hall, his armour chattering as he moved. Sofia reached for the door to push it shut, but Sir Theon turned around to face her again.

'The information I gave you today,' he said, his voice low and serious, 'I would appreciate it if you didn’t disclose that you heard that from me.'

Sofia froze inside Sir Theon’s shadow, her heart wrenching. How many people know Jacques’ secret? she thought. And what will he say when he finds out I know it too?

Sofia forced a courteous smile to her face and stiffly nodded her head.

Sir Theon bowed, leaving Sofia in the dimly lit room, a flickering candle casting eerie shadows on the wall.

(Scene 6)

Owen found Sir Eduardo Jeffro marching along the hallway towards a vacant bedchamber, his golden armour shimmering in the moonlight. He carried a thin shape wrapped in a thick cloth. Prince Jacques’ sword. Owen gripped the ram pommel of his own blade, preparing to use it.

'Sir Eduardo,' he called out as the silence made Owen’s heavy footsteps boom against the floor.

The knight halted, turning to face Owen with a steely gaze. 'What do you want?' he said, his Eastamerean accent flowing smoothly as he spoke, but tinged with a hint of defiance.

Owen's heart raced, but he pushed forward with unwavering resolve, calmly approaching. 'You have something that doesn’t belong to you.'

Sir Eduardo's eyes flickered to the sword he carried, his grip tightening 'It’s mine,' he replied curtly.

Owen’s heart beat faster, but he pushed on.

'That sword belongs to Prince Jacques,' he said, 'He will be needing it back.'

Lending a hand out, Owen waited for Sir Eduardo to hand it to him. The knight's expression hardened, a mixture of annoyance and apprehension clouding his features.

Glancing down at Ramshorn secured at his belt, Owen weighed his options. Would they come to blows? The clatter of their armour and clash of swords would surely awaken the entire palace. He needed to handle this situation delicately, but with his own imposing size and heavy armour, subtlety would be a challenge. Overpowering Sir Eduardo was feasible, yet Owen hesitated, hoping for a peaceful resolution.

'I insist you hand it over,' Owen said, keeping his hand outstretched.

His mind raced as he silently prayed for Sir Eduardo to relent, for this confrontation to end swiftly and quietly. But as tension hung thick in the air, Owen sensed something amiss. Sir Eduardo's gaze had shifted, his eyes fixed on a point behind Owen's back.

A sudden movement caught Owen's peripheral vision—a shadow darting swiftly across the corridor. Before he could react, a cloth pressed roughly against his mouth, its pungent scent assaulting his senses. The sickly sweet aroma of peaches filled his nostrils, disorienting him as his limbs grew heavy and his vision blurred. Darkness closed in, the echoes of his own desperate gasps fading into silence.